Caught In The Storm
by DerflaTheDork
Summary: All hope is lost when Ivan lives his last moments in an intense blizzard. Just a little oneshot by me, rated M for character death, hypothermia, and whatnot. I wouldn't exactly call it RusAme, but they are the two characters in the story.


Each heavy step and feeble breath Ivan managed came with its own price. A searing pain would course throughout the tall man's body with each action, simple or not. Ivan didn't even get the privilege to hear his own broken up thoughts due to the almost deafening clamor the snowstorm, in which he was stuck in, emitted. The wind howled like an untamed beast, and the bleach white snow mercilessly pounded against the Russian's weakening frame as he trudged on through the blizzard, all priorities dismissed except for one, and one only. Surviving. But, it was slowly dawning on him that this task might not have a chance to get fulfilled. He didn't know where he was- hell, he could be miles from civilization, and he wouldn't even know it- and the cold was starting to affect him greatly. The little flame of hope that once burned brightly throughout the blonde's being faded with each minute, and threatened to go out altogether. His eyes flitted up towards what he thought to be the night sky, though he couldn't really see anything. The snow was coming down too hard.

An hour has passed, and the man found himself crawling on the ice covered ground, his legs being too powerless to hold his body weight anymore. His deathly pale skin felt numb and bitterly cold, and he could feel his pulse dropping to an agonizingly slow tempo. At times, Ivan was convinced his heart had stopped pumping life-giving blood and panicked, only to be reassured once more with a dull 'thump' that the organ hadn't given up quite yet. Sometimes he wished it had. Without warning, he stopped crawling and collapsed onto his stomach, a pained groan escaping his blueish lips, the sound quickly becoming lost in the din of the storm. He laid there for a few moments until he attempted to get back up on all fours once more. He couldn't manage it. His muscles wouldn't let him, no matter how much his brain screamed for him to get up, to continue going. Try and try again, the efforts were fruitless, and eventually, he just ceased moving. _It's no use_, he thought, a fat tear rolling down his cold cheek. The Russian mustered up what strength he had left and let loose a hoarse yell, as if it would change his current situation. It didn't.

Suddenly, something caught his attention. It was as faint as a whisper, but it was still there, noticeable enough to attract the man's amethyst gaze. Amidst the gray landscape, a dim orange glow peeked through the thick sheet of falling snow, and Ivan almost cried out in utmost relief. The little candle of hope suddenly intensified tenfold as Ivan saw a window of opportunity to escape this nightmare, and surprisingly, with the hope, his strength went up as well. With new found adrenaline pumping through his system, he used his forearms to drag himself towards the light. It was a slow process, since Ivan had to take short breaks between each pull, but he was moving, nonetheless. Ivan's thoughts raced as he imagined himself being able to see his sisters, to see his friends, to even see the sun, again. He kept going, going until he was only a couple of feet away from the front step of which he could identify to be a log cabin. He stopped there, his muscles protesting loudly from being overworked. His breath came out in ragged pants and his amethyst hues trailed up towards the window, where he saw the silhouette of a person, an actual _person, _move around, oblivious of the man that lay dying outside. Ivan began to open his mouth to yell, to call out to the other, to finally get _rescued_- when he suddenly passed out from too much cold exposure. Hypothermia had finally taken its toll.

Early the next morning, Alfred F. Jones, one of the occupants of the log cabin, had exited the structure to get more firewood from the stash located on the front porch, when the cyan orbs of the American fell on an odd heap near the front steps of said porch. A confused look crossed the teens facade, and he began to put on his boots the stood by the door, so that he may investigate. After managing to clumsily slip the footwear on, he approached the snow covered object cautiously, pale brows raised in question. "Now what in the world-" The blonde murmured, brushing some of the snow off of whatever it obscured- only to stumble back and gasp in horror. The face of a man greeted Alfred, pale, cold, and..and lifeless. The corpse's wheat colored hair looked wild and untamed, strewn about the man's head carelessly, and the eyes of the once living being were half-lidded, revealing glossy, purple irises. Alfred drew in a sharp breath, and without a moment's further hesitation, he bolted back inside, calling his brother Matthew's name frantically. "Matthew! Matthew! There's a _dead body outside!_"


End file.
